


Am I Better Yet?

by glunkus



Category: Johnny the Homicidal Maniac
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M, My First AO3 Post, Suicide Attempt, although its not quite central to the story, because we all know johnny longs for the sweet embrace of death, edgar lives, enjoy the garbage, the local gays deal with their issues, what a remarkable chain of events
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-29
Updated: 2016-01-29
Packaged: 2018-05-17 00:14:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,947
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5846428
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glunkus/pseuds/glunkus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alternatively, I was gonna title this "Local Man Manages to be a Massive Idiot With No Self Preservation Skills Whatsoever." </p>
<p>The traditional Edgar lives narrative, what more could you ask for?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Am I Better Yet?

**Author's Note:**

> "What if I kill you?"
> 
> "You said you didn't need to."

After being let go, Edgar goes to the police. They assure him that the address he's describing doesn't exist, and when he tries to guide them there, he gets lost. For weeks, he's convinced that it was all a dream, and now his life is back to the pitifully boring routine that it was before.

Until he gets a rasping phone call. It's hard to understand until halfway through, but upon realizing it was the man who'd nearly killed him, Edgar hangs up. The phone falls from the cradle and Edgar doesn't bother to pick it up.

Two days later, he tries to call back, curious as to if he'll get an answer.

He doesn't.

Edgar calls the number every day for three weeks, and there's never an answer. Sometimes the line goes dead, sometimes it's busy, and sometimes the voicemail claims to be full, don't leave a message. (He never has left a message. Who else could be leaving a murderer voicemails? Who else remembers him?)

One day he sleeps in and nothing feels real, so he doesn't end up calling. When he wakes up the next morning, he calls from bed.

The line blares sound, a screeching static, "Hello?"

"Oh," Edgar hadn't thought this far ahead, "hello." he pauses, puts his glasses on, "You called me a while back, I think."

"Is this Edgar?" the voice sounds like a growl, but there's a very good chance it's unintentional, especially with the horrible cough that follows it. Wet, gravelly, like a small choke.

"Um, yes. Edgar Vargas."

"Yes, I remember." and there's silence on the line and Edgar doesn't know what else to say. So he doesn't say anything. "You're not still upset about the whole kidnapping and intended murder thing, are you?"

"Mn," Edgar gives it some thought and finally decides, "not particularly. I appreciate getting to live, though." 

"Has your life been changed? Did you go back to school? Realize how fragile your mortality truly is and take up a religion?" the growl is back and Edgar sure doesn't like it. His skin is peppered in goosebumps, fear in the most visible degree.

"Not really. I did lose my job, though," you would think nearly dying would inspire, but all it did for Edgar was use up his vacation days. "It was a bad job to begin with." Stock report filing was a hellish existence. 

"Really?" the amount of disbelief in the voice is uncharacteristically childish, which sets Edgar back a few moments of thought.

"Yeah," he says, leaning back in bed, "funny how that goes, huh?"

"Most people don't respond this way, Mister Vargas." there's an ominous tone in Johnny's voice but it sounds forced, like a bad horror movie imitation.

"Don't call me that, I'm only twenty-six." Edgar gives a little laugh, pushes his glasses up on his nose.

"I'm twenty-five," Johnny adds, almost a blurt, "twenty-six in October."

"Oh, a Libra, then?" Edgar's life consisted of hobbies. He never had any true skills or interests, just hobbies of assorted kinds. Knitting for a few months, then painting (which he was no good at), then astrology for as long as it took him to read the books he'd gotten on the subject. "I'm a Cancer."

Even though Johnny gives a thoughtful hum, the line falls quiet again.

"I  _like_ you," Johnny says, drawn out slowly in thought, "the others never talk."

"Well thank you, I do try." Edgar continues to give strangled laughter where he sees fit, a new sound to his throat.

"Are we friends now?" the question hits Edgar like an arrow, but he figures saying yes can't do him any harm.

"Sure we are, Nny. We're friends," he thinks for a moment, "under wild circumstances, but yes. Friends."

"My only other friend is Squee-gee."

"Squee?"

"Yeah," he says proudly, "that's a good name for a kid. He's good." the concept of a killer holding the company of a child worries Edgar, but he doesn't figure Johnny is the type to kill a child or even cause one harm. Intentionally, at least.

"Well, hopefully, Squee doesn't outshine me too greatly." Edgar chuckles, finally bothering to get up and put his feet into his house shoes.

"He's only eight." Edgar's joke is lost on Johnny, and he has to hold back laughter at the blunt response.

"Ah, I see. Thank goodness," he's cooking eggs now, pancakes on his eternally clean stovetop.

"Are you cooking?" even though Edgar can't see him, he imagines Johnny's large eyes opened wide. It's almost unsettling.

"Yeah. Why?" Johnny doesn't say anything for a long time, a soft humming sound taking over the line.

"Friends, right?" when Edgar hums an affirmative, Johnny blurts out, "I'm coming over," then hangs up.

Edgar doesn't register his fear until almost five minutes later, as he almost tosses scrambled eggs out of the pan. He burns his hand on the hot pan, but the pain doesn't exist until he's finished five pancakes and six eggs. (Now he's out of eggs.)

The fact that Johnny even found the place surprises Edgar but, sure enough, the killer is outside of his door.

"You're not going to try and kill me, are you? Not again?" it's Edgar's greeting, a nervous, lopsided smile on his face.

"No, I don't need to." the statement is more than a little off-putting, but Edgar doesn't believe it's worth pressing or arguing. If he's going to stay alive, that's enough for him.

"Great," he gestures for Johnny to follow him in, "I made pancakes."

The odd normalcy to the situation makes Edgar uncomfortable, like a visitor in his own home, so he just sits down at his bar, turns on his TV, and sets up to eat. Johnny follows closely, sitting down with the remaining food on a plate. He douses his pancakes in syrup, shovels food into his mouth.

"You don't eat much, do you?" Johnny only looks up and shakes his head, eggs balancing precariously on his fork. It gets Edgar thinking— if nobody can find Johnny, can he find food for himself on a regular basis? Or does he just not get to eat often, with all that he does? (The killing, kidnapping, disposing, etc.) Does he not make money in any way? How does he manage?

"What?" Johnny's voice barely sounds like words with all the food in his cheeks.

"Nothing. It's just—" Edgar thinks about what he's trying to say, horrified for only a moment at the thought, "you could come here when you need food. I have all I need." you know, except for company, so he's striving for it in the form of an emotionally inept murderer. He's pretty well off.

"That's a very brave statement, inviting a maniac to eat your food." Johnny has swallowed his eggs and he's giving Edgar a predatory look. "What if I kill you?"

"You said you didn't need to." Edgar counters, swallowing lukewarm eggs with the help of hot sauce that Johnny soon commandeers.

"What if I change my mind?" he punctuates his statement with a bite that's more Cholula than anything else.

"Then I get what's coming to me, I guess." the idea of death isn't what bothers Edgar, it's the thought of dying when he doesn't deserve it. "And you're more than welcome to my apartment as a whole."

"Ooh," Johnny practically coos at the thought, chewing on the last of a pancake. He cherishes it as though it's the last thing he's ever going to be able to eat. "Really?"

"Sure. Just don't kill me for the sake of getting my apartment. I do pay rent." he slides his final pancake onto Johnny's plate, suddenly not as hungry as he'd thought he was.

He takes his plate to the sink and washes dishes like a housewife, like his mother used to when he was small.

"I make no promises," Johnny finally says.

"Fair enough."

And as days go on and months pass, the two end up as distinct friends.

Edgar isn't sure how it ends up happening, but he isn't all that offended by the development. Johnny is interesting and they've only had a few bad incidents. Until one day, of course.

"I'm afraid." Johnny is holding Edgar's remote hostage, leaving Edgar to sit there as infomercials blare. "Edgar, I'm afraid."

"Of what?" this is less common than one would think. Johnny only gets existential, he never admits to complex emotions.

"People," he says, laying himself down on the couch, dangling his head over the arm, "they're all so horrifying. So fragile."

"Aren't you a person?" Edgar doesn't know how serious this episode really is, so he plays it safe.

"Of course. I'm thinking of the hypocrisy in what I do." he's wearing one of Edgar's shirts because all of his are busy ruining the washing machine. The inner drum is rust colored from all the blood. "I kill people because, as a whole, people are vile, disgusting creatures driven by their own physical and worldly desires of the flesh." his few moments of complete clarity horrify Edgar. It isn't clear if he'll only kill more during one, or will it submit him to a short span of sanity? "Although. I, too, am a person, by birth. Why don't I just kill myself?" although it's a question, it's posed to the sky, to Edgar's spackled ceiling and the stains that linger there from past tenants.

"I'd rather you didn't." Edgar doesn't fully commit to speech, his voice almost overpowered by the family on the television. And the carpets have never been cleaner!

"But that's the crux of it, my dear Edgar." he looks over at Edgar, the television making Johnny look more gaunt and horribly sick than he already does. "It's all desire. We're all driven by desire. Impure fucking desire!"

"Not all desires are impure, Nny." Edgar keeps his voice soft, "I desire Advil, there's nothing bad about that. I desire your company, you to stay alive, because I like you and I like talking to you." he makes a vague gesture with his hand, the other to his temple where pain is blossoming. "Even desires of the flesh don't have to be inherently bad. People desire sexuality, often, to make themselves feel good, sure. But also to bring their partner to feel good, too. Why? Because they love them. Not all human interaction has to be flawed. Is ours?" Edgar has stolen his remote and turned the television down, his gesturing hand falling limp.

"No, I suppose not. I enjoy you."

"I appreciate that." Edgar finally gets up to find Advil for his ever-growing headache. From the other side of room, Johnny is talking.

"The last person I got close to nearly killed me. I just wanted everything to stay good." he sounds sad, and that's nothing new. Johnny's voice betrays him far more than his body does.

"You can't end things when they only just get good, Nny." Edgar says, looking back to find Johnny with his hands in his hair. "Not only are you keeping yourself from the possibility of more happiness, but you're also keeping yourself from being able to appreciate it later. The bad is what makes good things good. Without it, good doesn't feel good, and you fall into a self destructive spiral, like last week, where you tried to put your head in the trash compactor."

All Johnny does is groan in response, gets up and goes to the bathroom. Edgar doesn't follow him until he hears Johnny rummaging.

"What are you doing?" Edgar walks in to see Johnny taking handfuls of Edgar's old medications. "Shit, oh my god," that'll teach him to stockpile things.

They spend fifteen minutes fighting, Edgar physically forcing Johnny's body onto the bathroom counter. He takes category of all Johnny took, then forces him to throw it all up in the sink until all he can do is dry heave. "You're an idiot." Edgar goes down on his knees to clean up the mess Johnny has left. "Why did you think you could just get away with that?"

And he's met with the sounds of someone who's having trouble with the muscles in his throat. "Well, I couldn't kill you," he finally says, still shaking from the heaving. Edgar feels terribly touched by such kindness, even if it is backwards and painful.

"Why not?" Edgar is sorting pills back into their bottles, amazed at how many medications he's been harboring.

"Because," he shrugs, eyes the residual vomit in the sink, "I don't wanna live in your apartment alone."

Edgar knows this is bullshit, but he doesn't say so, only puts the medicines away and pats Johnny's back while he continues to heave. This time he doesn’t jerk away from the touch.

Over time, Johnny purposefully, and sometimes accidentally, does self-destructive things that leave Edgar a nervous wreck. After nearly shooting himself in Edgar's courtyard, Johnny cries in Edgar's bed, which he'd been placed in awkwardly. Edgar sits on the edge of the bed, puts his best blanket over Johnny's heaving shoulders.

Even though Johnny falls asleep like this, Edgar finds himself with a patch of bed all his own, as delegated to him by his resident murderer. Johnny doesn't wake up until noon the next day, and he stays close to Edgar throughout everything. Through lunch and washing clothes, through fixing the TV, and all of Edgar's daily motions. Johnny is at his side, holding onto the hem of his shirt. The only time Johnny leaves his side is to go to the bathroom, which Edgar finds rummaged through once again.

Good thing he threw the medications away.

As they're watching infomercials, Johnny lumps over onto Edgar's shoulder, a pathetic whine leaving his body.

"I'm gonna sleep here." Johnny says, then ends up with his hands tangled in Edgar's shirt.

Edgar's breathing doesn't settle until the morning, when he has to get up to make breakfast. He's desperately thankful that he can walk away, instead of feeling what it's like to hold Johnny.

When you cheat death, you aren't intended to adore the man who nearly killed you. Well, nearly ripped to shreds is more accurate.

The term adore makes Edgar gag. He asks himself what exactly he thinks about Johnny, what he wants. When the word incredible comes to mind, Edgar heaves into the sink. This continues until he's thought of every possible thing, and has thrown up excessively.

"What the fuck?" Johnny asks him, bleary eyed from his perch on the back of the couch.

"You don't wanna hear about it." Edgar qualifies, wiping his mouth. Much like their first incident, Johnny comes over and puts his hand on Edgar's back as he shakes.

"Do too."

"Why?" Edgar asks through small gags, trying not to feel every knuckle and bend in Johnny's hand; the places where the joints creak, the slight twitch of his pointer finger.

"Amazing as it may seem, I think I care about you, Mister Vargas."

Edgar's eyes go fuzzy as he heaves so hard, vomits so much, that his throat ends up raw and his forehead hits the faucet.

They're sitting on the hood of Edgar's car in the middle of nowhere. With Johnny around him, Edgar no longer feels fear. Anything or anyone bad that could happen to him is no match to the killer he keeps at his side.

"I feel morally obligated to kiss you, or something." Johnny says, turning to look at Edgar. "With the grand gesture of seeing me under the stars, illuminated by moonlight," he teases, smirking.

Edgar laughs, but doesn't look at Johnny, doesn’t even bother trying. "You don't owe me anything, but I'm not gonna stop you."

"The last person I nearly kissed ended up beating my head in. After I tried to kill her." he sighs, "Not the best."

"You're not gonna kill me." Edgar says flatly, like he always does, "You said so, remember?"

They share a few beats of silence, Johnny staring up at the stars while Edgar listens with his eyes shut. Blissing.

Finally, "I suppose you're right." and they get back into the car, back to Edgar's apartment, where Johnny sits so close to Edgar that it lulls him asleep.

He wakes up to Johnny in his lap, knife in hand. "Do you trust me?" he asks, voice ragged, "Do you believe that I won't hurt you?"

"I know you won't kill me," Edgar clarifies, realizing he's not wearing his glasses but not remembering taking them off. Did Johnny do that? "I trust you."

And there's a rough scraping on his neck, which he eventually connects to Johnny's nails and not tiny blades. "Edgar," he starts, the knife hilt settles on Edgar's collarbone. "I'm afraid."

"How can I help?" Edgar's automatic response, sincere and gentle like always.

Johnny leans in far enough to put his forehead to Edgar's Edgar reaches up, moves the knife away, put putting it past Johnny not to impale himself on it.

"You don't trust me." he says limply, whining.

"Not when it comes to not hurting yourself, no. I don't, really." Edgar keeps his hand on Johnny's wrist, keeping him close. "Because, I believe I care about you, Nny."

Even though Johnny seems to laugh, he's pressing himself to Edgar, eventually forming a kiss between the two of them.

They fall asleep like this, but Edgar transports Johnny to the bed around six in the morning, knife left behind on the couch. He manages to fall asleep again, divided from Johnny for the sake of decency.

He swears he feels another body on his chest for a while, but wakes up to an empty bed.

**Author's Note:**

> title ripped off from Everybody Knows You're Insane. doesn't have shit to do with the story.  
> chapter title ripped off from Glycerine. doesn't have shit to do with the story. amazing.
> 
> i wrote this whole thing in my moleskine. what a bitch.
> 
> for some reason my nny comes off as infantile, childish. why is that? he's a grown ass man. 
> 
> i started writing a second part, something a little sweeter, so maybe that'll happen.


End file.
